The Wristwatch
by La. Bel. LM
Summary: Danny fumes over what he has convinced himself is a one-sided relationship. But perhaps he shouldn't be so quick to assume... COMPLETE


**"The Wristwatch"**

_You're being a dinkus_.

Danny gripped the steering wheel as he looked over his shoulder and changed lanes. He sighed. He had been telling himself he was being a dinkus since yesterday afternoon, but it was just an exercise in futility.

He could be a stubborn S.O.B. when he put his mind to it, quite frankly, and for some reason or another, he'd gotten it into his mind to be disproportionately upset about something that he had no right to be upset about at all.

Currently, Danny was on his way to the airport to pick up CJ, greet her with kiss and a wink, and then sweep her off to dinner reservations for two at a very exclusive and comically pretentious restaurant he knew she would love. But the dinkus side of him wanted to not so much sweep her off to dinner as to stuff her baggage-first into a public bus and let her find her own damn way home while he drank himself under the nearest bar stool.

_You're overreacting. You're overacting. Calm down, Buddy—Take a damn breath, Champ. It is what it is._

The "it" in question was an article in Vanity Fair magazine. Some up-and-coming journalist had decided it would be prudent to do what she was profoundly convinced would be a "real" human interest story—a female interest story—all about the ingoing and outgoing Power Women of the presidential administration (particular emphasis placed on those in close proximity to the Oval Office, of course). It was a bullshit piece; mostly assembled from block quotes of interviews centered around trivial personality quirks and amusing or scandalous anecdotes from the line of duty. Because her real motivation all along was to get the girls dressed up in sassy suits and drop them in front of a professional photographer so they could pop outrageous poses, throw out their chests, and "show the world" that D.C. hardball wasn't played prohibitively by a team made only of man tan glory seeking crackpots, red-faced windbags, and androgynous aunt Edith with the cankles and Harvard mouth. Washington women were plentiful. And they could be hot too.

Penny Paige Maynard, author and mastermind behind this Vanity Fair monstrosity, was a notorious strumpet in the world of reporting. Not in the literal sense—she didn't sleep around (for money), but she was shameless and conceited and, as CJ often liked to call her, a 'morally depraved super skank two-faced double-crossing betrayer of the Sisterhood'. (Danny had learned to keep his mouth shut after he'd shown the audacity to point out that 'two-faced', 'double-crossing', and 'betrayer' all essentially meant the same thing and CJ had promptly taken a swing at him with a soapy skillet). For, although Penny Paige Maynard spewed feminist ideals as religiously as the next person, and publically swore her undying fealty to furthering the righteous rise of women—and the subsequent downfall of men—she continued to perpetuate female objectivism, diminishing their professional status by appealing to the masses only through a tits-and-hair mentality, all sexuality, all "likability"—as opposed to promoting anything remotely substantial, like actual intelligence or capability.

CJ had been roped into doing the piece a little by accident, a little by bad luck, and a lot by Josh Lyman thinking it would be hilarious. He had heard that the infamous Miss Mayanard would be cruising the White House hallways and immediately bribed Carol to convince Margaret to use her magical powers and masterfully slip in a time slot for the interview somewhere in the outgoing Chief of Staff's schedule. She got it in right under the wire. Magic Margaret.

Baffled, disgusted, wary, unbelievably judgmental, CJ consented to do the interview. Lord knows why, but she spent an hour and a half answering doltish, politically and professionally irrelevant questions—perhaps, Danny thought, in part because she didn't mind so much talking about her personal habits of life now that she was officially relinquishing the spotlight. It was no doubt a relief to answer throwaway inquiries without worrying how even the smallest faux pas might somehow come back one day to bite her in the ass. She was on her way out, and so she took it all in relatively good humor.

Danny took it in even better humor. He had laughed until he cried when CJ came to his apartment that night and recounted the afternoon's ordeal, nearly dry-heaving as she held out a sketch Penny Paige had given her depicting a micro mini strapless nightmare that some designer-or-another had fashioned for her to wear in the photo shoot (and which she absolutely was not going to touch with a ten foot pole). In fact, CJ refused to join her fellow "legislating femme fatales" in the photo shoot full stop.

Please refer to eight long years of briefing tapes and tabloids, ladies and gentleman; CJ Cregg was done with being looked at.

But Vanity Fair decided they wanted to run the interview anyway. And Danny had awaited its publication with immense anticipation. Also trepidation. He knew the nature of the questions CJ had been asked (Miss Maynard could be rather predictable), yet he had no idea what any of her answers had actually been. Did he know her as well as he thought? What if he didn't? Was the whole world going to be learning the secret joys and behavioral quirks of Claudia Jean Cregg at the same time (perhaps even _before_) her most devoted and passionate lover?

And yet these fears were mostly ignored, displaced by the tiny little flutters he got in his stomach whenever he imaged what sort of role he would play in the interview. What sorts of things would she say about him? About their life together?

Even though he knew—he _knew _okay?—she would not refer to him by name, or probably even allude to having a partner at all; but surely he would make an appearance in there somewhere. Questions like: Where is your favorite place to relax? Your favorite restaurant? What was the best gift you ever received? Your favorite song? Color? Etc., etc.

Any of those, he felt, could yield answers that were permeated by the pleasure and comfort he so hoped his presence in CJ's life had brought to her. He was convinced he would find at least the tiniest evidence or spark of their relationship hidden somewhere in that nest of seemingly extraneous facts.

But the article had come—yesterday, while CJ was in Houston meeting with potential sponsors for her Hollis highway project—Danny had read the thing three times over with his morning coffee, and felt a familiar despondency swelling in his chest.

Her favorite place to relax was dinner at her sister-in-law's? She'd told him it was sitting on the couch in her apartment with a good bottle of Chianti and Joni Mitchell's "Blue" album. At least, that was the excuse she gave when declining invitations to spend the evening with him. She always said that being alone was detrimental to her sanity because it was the only way for her to truly relax. Was it just him, or did dinner with in-laws sound like the complete opposite?

Which one was true?

What about her favorite restaurant—that had certainly thrown him for a loop. Some place he had never even heard of. If it was her favorite, why hadn't he ever taken her there? Why hadn't _she_ taken _him_ there?

But the answer that had most bothered him consisted of only one word: earmuffs. She had been asked to describe the best gift she ever received, and her answer had been "earmuffs." What the—She didn't even _wear_ earmuffs!

Maybe Danny understood her reluctance to publically acknowledge _him_, but there was no need to snub their darling Gail!

"_What is your favorite sound?_" "_A ticking wristwatch_."

Fucking ridiculous.

Danny pulled into the parking lot and picked the first available spot (which was, of course, four goddamn floors up). He absolutely knew that he was blowing this out of proportion, but something about the futility of what he had, for so long, been struggling to grasp had really hit him hard over the past twenty-four hours. Was it always going to be this? Was it always going to be more on his side than hers? Would she marry him? Even if he worked up the courage to ask? Did he even want her to say yes if she didn't mean forever? If she wasn't absolutely certain? If she didn't want it as much as he did?

Danny felt his heart give a little jump as he saw her sitting on a bench in the pick-up area, an arm resting on her suitcase, one long, gorgeous leg crossed over the other, her nose in a Newsweek.

_You're being a dinkus_, he told himself again. And sighed.

Yes—was the answer to that last question. He wanted her to say yes, even if she didn't mean forever, even if she wasn't absolutely certain, even if she didn't want it as much as he did.

That thought really depressed him.

"I'm parked on the fourth floor," Danny said roughly as he approached.

CJ flipped the magazine closed and slipped it into her purse. "That's alright—after five hours on a plane I'll appreciate the cardio." Then she stood and went in to kiss him, but Danny—subtly as he could manage—turned slightly so they kissed each other's cheeks instead.

CJ's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly; however, if she was confused, she made no further acknowledgement.

"Let me help you with your bags."

They drove back to the house in relative silence, and later that night, they ate dinner in relative silence (CJ talked briefly about her meetings—who she thought would be most committed, the most worthwhile investment, and those whom she would rather not waste her time on again; Danny nodded and grunted, but offered little commentary). Somehow, time kept on progressing, hour after hour, in that same, tense fashion, without relief, without incident.

It was just her way not to make things personal unless she had to—unless someone else initiated it. Whereas CJ Cregg White House press secretary, and CJ Cregg Chief of Staff, were both extraordinarily outgoing and confrontational, Claudia Jean lover and companion was painfully passive-aggressive, shy of expressing herself, and of asking the same from anyone else; she was so closed, so tentative it drove him crazy! But tonight Danny was grateful for it—because he was acting strange, he couldn't help it, and she had definitely noticed, was no doubt wondering what the cause of it all was—and the last thing in the world he wanted to do was to talk about it with her. So he was grateful she never asked. But he was also sad that she never asked.

After dinner, they went straight home, both exhausted, both irritable, both ready to bury their troubles beneath the stupor of a long night's sleep. Danny got himself ready for bed and sat under the covers reading while CJ took her shower.

He was doing alright while the water was running; he could concentrate, lose himself and his frustration in the textual intricacies of his book. But the moment the shower turned off and he could hear her in there, brushing her teeth, clacking her lotion bottles on the countertop, clearing her throat, all the little threads of thought in his head unraveled. She was everything, his whole world, and he was so goddamn _sick_ of wondering if it was the same way for her!

Danny continued to pretend to read until he couldn't anymore, and shoved the book away in disgust. CJ was just slipping into bed beside him when he turned off the lamp and wriggled under the covers, resolved to fall instantly to sleep. He could feel CJ sitting there next to him for a long time, her lamp still on, silent, staring at him.

"Danny, what's wrong?" she finally said, quietly.

He didn't respond, feigning sleep.

"Dann—"

"Nothing, nothing, CJ, nothing—go to sleep." He turned over on his usual side (facing her) and stretched out into his familiar sleeping position; that was all the assurance he could offer. Which was apparently enough, because CJ proceeded to turn off her lamp and lay down against him without another word.

Danny put his left arm around her waist, slid his right arm beneath her pillow, and shut his eyes. He tried to silence his brain, but he couldn't. So instead he concentrated on the relative quiet of a California night, all the little sounds he was just now beginning to get used to; the creaks of the house, the faint sound of traffic in the distance, the wind against the shutters, CJ's breathing, the sound of…of…

Slowly, Danny felt that tight, thick, twisted knot in his stomach begin to loosen—and then, in the blink of an instant, it disappear altogether. His chest swelled.

Well.

Whad'ya know.

Her favorite sound in the whole world? It was here. In their house, in their bed, in his arms, listening to the sound of his wristwatch, tucked beneath her pillow.

Danny smiled so widely his face hurt.

"Hey," he muttered softly, snuggling up against her warm back. She shifted slightly, turning on him with that sleepy yet penetrating look.

"Sorry, I...about today, I…" He cleared his throat. "I, uh…Well, you know, I…read the article."

Immediately, CJ gave him a long-suffering roll of the eyes. "Oh, Honey—you gotta get a grip."

"I know."

"It was just a stupid interview."

"I know."

"More like a sort of a _bizarre_ girl-talk gossip session with a morally depraved super skank."

"Two-faced, double-crossing betrayer of the Sisterhood."

She gave a throaty laugh. "I love that you remember these things verbatim."

He kissed her shoulder. "You're right, though. Of course it's ridiculous. I gave Penny Paige far more credit than she actually warrants. I was just—I was tired, and I missed you while you were gone, and I was afraid that I didn't really know you after all. I was afraid that—"

"Danny."

"What?"

"You're being a dinkus."

"I know." He smiled, almost laughed, and kissed her again. "I know."

FIN


End file.
